


What the Hell is the Catch?

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, Feelings, M/M, Romance, Schmoop, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 02:57:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11637483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Alexander has been sleeping with his boss for months, but he is starting to want more.





	What the Hell is the Catch?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexanger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexanger/gifts).



> For prompt #23: "When I picture myself happy... It's with you."

They don't talk about feelings.

That's not what they do; it's not who they are to each other. They work together. They look out for each other. They fuck. But that's all this is. That's all this _can_ be, because Washington is his boss. No one can know about the late nights in the office that so often take a carnal turn. No one can know about the mornings Alexander wakes up in Washington's bed. No one can know about _any_ of this.

It's not the first time Alexander has been someone's dirty little secret, but it's the longest he's stuck it out. He's too honest for this bullshit. 

At least this time it's a straightforward arrangement. There's no spouse to dodge, no complicated rules to follow, no _specific_ lies to tell. Just him and Washington and the knots they twist each other into.

Washington is _his_ , even if no one can know. Alexander doesn't need to share, and most days that's enough.

Most days he can convince himself he doesn't want more.

"What are you thinking about?" Washington's voice cuts through the distracted tangent of Alexander's thoughts.

"Nothing," he answers too quickly. Then, with a shrug calculated to look careless, "You, mostly."

Washington's attention was elsewhere a moment ago, focused on the cluster of case files open across his massive desk. But it sharpens and hones in on Alexander now. Dark eyes find and hold him, blinking in an expression that is more curiosity than heat. Alexander resists the urge to squirm in his chair. There is something uniquely discomfiting about being at the true center of George Washington's focus.

It somehow always feels as though Washington is seeing too much when he looks at Alexander this way. The man might not be a genius on paper, but damned if he's _not_ the smartest person Alexander has ever known, in his own methodical way.

Washington caps his fountain pen without redirecting his gaze. "Is everything okay?"

And god damn it, there's a faint hint of _genuine worry_ audible in his voice. Alexander wonders what he's giving away without meaning to right now, to inspire such quiet concern. Concern is the last thing he wants from Washington. He doesn't need anyone—especially his boss—to goddamn _take care of him_.

"Sure." Alexander sets his own work down on the desk and rolls his shoulders. "Just tired." They've been at this for hours, and his back is starting to ache. He doesn't need to look at the clock above Washington's office door to know they should stop. Go to their respective homes, get some actual sleep. There are far too few hours until morning, and they'll both have even more to do when the normal work day begins.

"Maybe we should call it a night," Washington agrees in a tone that is almost a sigh—all the proof necessary that he's exhausted too. "We could keep at this until sunrise and still not finish."

Alexander hums a noncommittal sound and pushes up from his chair. He stretches his arms above his head, enjoying the way Washington's eyes follow the movement. Even exhausted as they are, there's a flash of hunger—a wordless possessiveness—in that gaze, and Alexander loves it. Uncomplicated. Simple. Ferociously mutual. He narrows his eyes and lets a teasing smile curl at one side of his mouth.

"It's late, Alexander," Washington reminds him. But even though he pushes his chair back from his desk, he does not stand.

"Yes," Alexander agrees. He leans forward and begins closing the files one by one. Gathering them. Stacking them on one corner of the desk. Setting aside pens and highlighters. Closing his laptop with a click and tucking it in the messenger bag beneath his chair.

When he finishes, Washington is still staring at him. There's a familiar question in those dark eyes.

"Will that be everything for tonight, sir?" Alexander murmurs, dropping his gaze to the floor in an absolute mockery of deference. He stands before Washington's desk, patient despite the first hint of heat rising in his blood. He knows he looks a complete disaster. After an eighteen hour work day, how could he not? His jacket and tie have long since been discarded over the back of his chair. His shirt is creased and rumpled, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the collar crushed and half unbuttoned. He hasn't checked his hair since he came into Washington's office, but he's sure the elastic band is no longer containing the chaos of flyaways and static.

He's a mess and he knows it. But he also knows Washington enjoys the sight of him this way, when it's just the two of them and there are no witnesses to impress with professional appearance.

Alexander is startled enough to raise his head when Washington answers, "Yes, my boy. You can go. I'll see you in the morning."

 _My boy_. The closest they share to a term of endearment. Washington uses it sparingly, though he does not always confine himself to private moments. For him to use it now while simultaneously dismissing Alexander—for him to turn down such a blatant offer—is... unusual.

"Sir," Alexander protests, rounding the desk with cautious determination.

Washington swivels his chair to meet Alexander's approach. He doesn't _look_ like he wants Alexander to leave. If anything his eyes glint even darker with wanting. A flicker of a glance down Washington's body, and Alexander sees the unmistakable bulge of arousal beneath the fine fabric of his boss's dress pants.

"Are you sure?" Alexander presses, meeting Washington's eyes. "I could stay a little longer. Find some way to make myself useful."

He doesn't know why this feels different than the last dozen times he's offered himself like this. There's the usual bright burst of anticipation beneath his skin, but also something more. Something off-balance, thrown askew by Washington's hesitation. This feels... _complicated_. Strange in a way things have never been between them, at least not since the first time he fumbled his way into Washington's bed.

"George?" he asks now, keeping his posture loose by force of will.

"Do whatever you like." Washington settles more comfortably in his spacious chair, curling his fingers around creaking leather armrests. Spreading his legs wider. Making his growing erection all the more obvious as he lets his gaze lock hungrily on Alexander's mouth.

Alexander could be coy. It isn't like Washington to string him along this way, to let anticipation strain between them without _doing_ something about it. By now Washington knows _full well_ that Alexander is his for the taking. They've fucked too many times, and in too many creative ways, for there to be any lingering doubts between them now. And yet this is where they are, Washington staring up at him as though daring Alexander to make the next move. Not guiding him to his knees. Not rising from the chair to meet him halfway. Not following any of their usual patterns and negotiations.

Even so Alexander does not hesitate. He takes two steps forward and sinks to his knees, meeting Washington's eyes the entire way down.

"Do you want my mouth tonight?" He sets his hands atop Washington's thighs, thrilling at the flex of firm muscle beneath his palms. It's a silly game. A pointless question. Of course Washington wants his mouth tonight. Washington _always_ wants his mouth. But Alexander smiles at the twitch of the cock still concealed beneath smooth fabric, the visible proof of just how welcome the offer is.

"I told you," Washington murmurs. "Do whatever you like." He does not look away. He does not take his hands off the armrests of his ridiculous chair. He does not make any move at all to _touch_ , a fact which is utterly perplexing.

Alexander doesn't know what to make of it, or of the way Washington is looking at him now. Heavy, meaningful, cryptic... There's fondness in that look, but also other things. Alexander doesn't know what they mean, or why his heart pounds faster at the conundrum.

He doesn't falter, though. Hell no, Alexander Hamilton is on his knees, right where he yearns to be, and he's not going to let uninvited _feelings_ prevent him from enjoying the cock he is about to taste. He drops his gaze to Washington's lap and reaches forward with nimble hands—carefully opens the straining fly, freeing the impressive hard-on beneath.

God, Washington has a beautiful cock. This is not new information, but it still knocks Alexander flat every time he remembers that he is the only one who gets to do this. He licks his lips now, as he considers taking the flushed length in hand. Washington is already fully hard, would feel _so good_ in Alexander's grip. He imagines it—the silken heat sliding against his palm—the hardness beneath his touch.

But even more, he wants to _taste_.

Without hesitation he ducks his head, dropping his jaw and taking that perfect cock into his mouth.

Washington's breath stutters above him, and Alexander slides lower. He welcomes the weight across his tongue, the stretch of his lips around the shaft. His eyes flutter closed, a groan of pure satisfaction rumbling from his chest as he takes Washington deeper.

He expects hands in his hair, but he refuses to be disappointed when Washington doesn't touch him. He doesn't need guidance. Not for this. He draws a readying breath through his nose, and then takes even more, suppressing his gag reflex and swallowing the thick, hard length.

Washington grunts an undignified sound of pleasure, but even more satisfying is the way his hips stutter upward without conscious intent. Alexander is expecting it, rides with it as the movement forces the rest of Washington's cock down his throat. He doesn't choke. Just swallows this too, following when Washington settles once more in his seat, keeping the entire length deliberately sheathed.

He was not nearly this skilled when he and Washington first began their affair. Alexander has always loved the taste and feel of a cock in his mouth, but Washington is the first lover he's had with the patience to give him _this_. No one else has ever been willing to let Alexander take his time and explore his own limits, repeatedly postponing both of their orgasms until sanity is a distant memory and neither of them can remember how to breathe. That the size of him made for an extra challenge was never a problem; Alexander Hamilton is nothing if not stubborn.

The moment stretches endless between them now. Alexander can _feel_ Washington trembling with the effort of holding still, and a shiver ricochets through him at the show of control.

He does not move yet. He can't breathe with his throat filled so completely, but he is determined to savor this. To enjoy this strange and delicious power that he alone holds over the man beneath his hands.

As the seconds grow taut and endless, Alexander is impressed Washington continues to hold onto the chair instead of grabbing hold of him. Suddenly he is curious to see which of them will break first. If it will be him and his unavoidable need for air, or if it will be Washington unable to restrain himself any longer, taking hold and forcing him to motion.

As it turns out, neither of these happens first.

Instead, Washington speaks in a voice that is pure need, quiet and desperate. "God, Alexander, _please_."

And _oh_ , Alexander cannot refuse such a plea. He's never heard Washington sound so small and shattered, and he likes it.

He likes it very, _very_ much.

When he draws back enough to breathe, even that small movement earns a shaky gasp from Washington. Good. Let him come apart. Alexander relaxes his throat and bobs low again, taking him in. He doesn't stop this time. No, this time he keeps moving. Rising once more, sinking low, swallowing Washington down again. And again. And again.

He doesn't use his hands. He could. But there is something giddy and delightful in showing off this way. In working Washington toward the edge with only his mouth, his tongue, his throat.

It's only a matter of time before the ragged, hurried breathing clues him in that Washington is close. Alexander's own cock is aching now with the need to be touched. Fuck, he could almost come like this, without a hand on him. There's something heady in this desperate communion, something incomparable and intimate and completely overwhelming. A moment almost like panic rises in Alexander's chest at how dangerously perfect this feels, and he gets distracted, nearly chokes around the cock still impaling him.

" _Alexander_ ," Washington groans, and it's a warning. 

It's all the warning he needs.

He draws back just far enough to catch the salt-bitter release on his tongue, savoring the taste, waiting until Washington is entirely spent before swallowing every drop.

Another moment and he's astride Washington's lap, groaning as a single strong hand opens his fly and slips inside to grope his aching cock. Alexander rolls his hips forward, rutting into the cupped heat of that enormous palm. Desperate himself now, frantic to come.

He does not stop his search for friction, even when Washington claims his mouth in a searing kiss. _Now_ those commanding fingers twine in Alexander's hair, guiding him to a better angle, tilting his head just so. Washington's tongue is hot in his mouth, claiming him hungrily.

Alexander can't last long like this. He's too eager, and too worked up, and _too close_ —

And he is not embarrassed at all when he spends right there in his briefs, beneath Washington's heavy hand.

When his breathing slows, Alexander moves with his usual quickness to climb off of Washington's lap—but instead of letting him go, muscled arms circle him and hold on. When Alexander only stills in confusion, Washington slides one hand up his spine and tucks him close again. Tight against his chest, guiding Alexander's head down to Washington's shoulder.

"Sir?" he asks uncertainly, even as he settles more comfortably and presses his forehead beneath Washington's jaw.

"You don't need to go so soon," Washington says. "I'd... like to hold you a little longer, if that's all right."

"But... But we don't," Alexander begins to protest, but cuts himself off sharply. He catches his own lower lip between his teeth. Christ, why is he arguing when he _wants this_? How many times has he thrilled on waking not just in Washington's bed, but _in his arms_? How often has he wished he could stay, could ask Washington to keep him just like this, when their other intimacies are finished?

"Perhaps we could," Washington says in that same soft, careful voice.

"Yeah?" Alexander hears himself ask, barely above a whisper. "Is... Is that what _you_ want?"

Instead of answering directly, Washington takes a moment, obviously gathering his thoughts. When he speaks, it is with a thoughtful steadiness that ignites a different sort of warmth beneath Alexander's skin.

"I've been thinking. About us. About _this_. And asking myself if it's enough."

"Sir?" Alexander's hands have found their way to twisting in Washington's shirt, and he grips harder now. He feels suddenly breathless.

"Please don't misunderstand me," Washington continues. "I enjoy our arrangement. Nothing has to change if you don't want it to. But I think..."

Alexander waits a moment for the end of that sentence. When it doesn't come, he pushes himself up from Washington's chest and forces the man to meet his eyes. "You think _what_ , George?"

Washington draws another, deeper breath and says, "I think perhaps it is time for one of us to seek other employment. As long as you work for me, no one can know we're together. We're stuck with these secrets. But if you no longer answer to me professionally..."

The implication hangs in the air between them. Tempting, terrifying, overwhelming. Alexander is too stunned to speak. He simply stares at Washington, mouth agape and eyes wide. It's a long time before he finds his voice again, but Washington does not rush him.

"Are you saying... Are you saying you _want_ to be with me? For real? Like... Meet the family, acknowledge each other in public, go on _actual dates_? Be a real couple?"

"Yes," Washington says. Simple. Blunt. Unrepentant. "If you want the same."

"I do," Alexander blurts, not thinking and for once _not caring_ that his mouth is a step ahead of his brain. "I do want it. _Fuck_ , I want it so bad. But George, you can't— I'm the wrong guy for all that. I'm fucked up. I'm loud, and I'm stubborn, and I'm angry _all the time_."

"You say that like I don't _know you_." Washington's smile is infuriatingly fond. "I know what I'm getting into, Alexander."

"Do you?" Alexander asks, and when Washington looks exasperated he presses, "I mean. Seriously, George, do you? Really? Because whatever fairytale ending you're picturing here—"

"Easy," Washington says, and that one word cuts through the spinning wheels in Alexander's head with the weight of calm. "I'm not picturing _anything_. I just know you make me happy."

"But I'm a _mess_ ," Alexander protests.

"Yes," Washington agrees with a smile. "My thesis stands, regardless."

Alexander hesitates. Lets this overload of new information suffuse him. He breathes, out and in, steady as he can manage.

"I make you happy," he says at last, wonder in his voice. Echoing the sentiment. Desperate to believe it.

"Immeasurably."

And even though he is terrified—even though he can't picture exactly what the future will hold if he agrees to this—Alexander knows what he needs. This thing between them makes _him_ happy, too, and he isn't interested in any path forward that doesn't include George.

"I'm in," he says, and there's warmth in the smile spreading across his face. "Let's fucking do this."


End file.
